May Brooke | Page 5

innocently beautiful, that May paused a few moments by her pillow, to gaze at her. "She is like the descriptions which the old writers give us of the Blessed Virgin," thought May; "that high, beautifully chiseled nose; those waves of golden hair; those calm finely cut lips, that high, snowy brow, and those long, shadowy eyelashes, lying so softly on her fair cheeks, oh, how beautiful! It seems almost like a vision, only--only I know that this is a poor frail child of earth; but, oh! immaculate Mother, cherish, guard, and guide her, that her spirit may be conformed to thine."
"I suppose," said Mr. Stillinghast, when May came down, "that you'll go trotting presently through the snow and ice to church."
"No, sir; I fear I cannot go this morning," said May.
"Cannot go? well, really! I wonder if an earthquake will swallow me before I get to the wharf today," said Mr. Stillinghast, drawing on his boots.
"I trust not, sir; I'd be happier to go, but Helen is a stranger, and she might awake when I am gone, and want something. To-morrow we will go together."
"So, there's to be a regular popish league in my house, under my very nose," he growled.
"Which will do you no evil, dear uncle, in soul, body, or estate; but you had better wrap this comfort around your throat; I finished knitting it last night for you," said May, in her quiet, cheerful way.
"For me, eh? It is very nice and soft--so--that does very well," said Mr. Stillinghast, while one of those rare gleams, like sunshine, shot over his countenance.
"I shall be very happy all day, sir," said May, gathering up the cups and saucers.
"Why?"
"Because, sir, I thought--you might--"
"Throw it at your head, or in the fire, eh? I shall do neither; I shall wear it. I have not forgot that confounded attack of quinsy I had last winter, nor the doctor's bill that followed it, and which was worse on me than the choking I got," said Mr. Stillinghast, while the old, grim look settled on his face again. He went away, down to his warehouse on the wharf, to grip and wrestle with gain, and barter away the last remnants of his best and holiest instincts, little by little; exchanging hopes of heaven for perishable things, and crushing down the angel conscience, who would have led him safely to eternal life, for the accumulated and unholy burthen of Mammon.
And May, singing cheerily, cleaned, and swept and rubbed, and polished, and touched up things a little here and there, until the room was arranged with exquisite taste and neatness; then took her work-basket, in which lay a variety of little infant's socks, and fine fleecy under-garments, knit of zephyr worsted, which looked so pure and soft that even she touched them daintily, as she lifted them out to find her needles, and sat down by the fire. "Now for a nubae," she said, throwing on stitch after stitch; "ladies who frequent theatres and balls find them indispensable: this shall be the handsomest one of the season--worth, at least four dollars."
CHAPTER III.
THE MORNING ERRAND.
After the slender ivory needles had traversed the fleecy mesh backwards and forwards some three or four times, May suddenly bethought herself of Helen, and laying her work carefully down in her basket, she ran upstairs to see if she was awake. Turning the knob of the door softly, she entered with a noiseless step, and went towards the bed; but a low, merry laugh, and a "good morning," assured her that her kind caution had all been needless.
"Dear Helen, how are you to-day?"
"Very well, thank you, little lady, how do you do, and what time is it?"
"Half-past nine. You need your breakfast, I am sure. Shall I fetch it to you?"
"Just tell me, first, have you a fire downstairs?"
"A very nice one!"
"And we can't have one here?"
"Decidedly--no."
"Decidedly, then, I shall accompany you downstairs, if that horrid old man is gone. Oh, I never was so terrified in my life; I thought he'd beat me last night. Is he gone?"
"Uncle Stillinghast has been gone an hour or more," replied May, gravely.
"Do tell me, May, does he always jump and snarl so at folk as he did at me?" inquired Helen; seriously.
"I see that I must initiate you, dear Helen, in the mysteries of our domicile," said May, pleasantly. "I must be plain with you, and hope you will not feel wounded at my speech. Our uncle is very eccentric, and says a great many sharp, disagreeable things; and his manners, generally, do not invite affection. But, on the other hand, I do not think his health is quite sound, and I have heard that in his early life he met with some terrible disappointments, which have doubtless soured him. He knows nothing of